Children of the Damned, The Sequel

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Children of the Damned, The Sequel

It seemed like a good idea: a cheerful, celebrative evening of Yuletide fun. Why not invite the children, we asked while planning the annual Christmas party for our small group. The kids can join in the hot cider and cookies, exchange homemade gifts, and experience the spirit of Christmas by singing with us the cherished carols of our heritage.

Wrong.

Because on the way to the party our kids must have been secretly kidnapped by aliens and replaced with ... the Sacrilegious Children From Hell!

The evening progressed as planned, a little noisier than expected perhaps, but as we lit candles and gathered our families around the hearth a calm began to settle over us. What a great way to spend a holiday evening, we parents foolishly thought to ourselves.

"Let's sing 'Jingle Bells,'" I suggested to the gleeful giggles of our precious children. But midway through the song it happened: A single voice in the back of the room started to rise above the rest ... "Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg ..." And one by one the children began to join in, gradually drowning out the adults, chanting louder and louder ... "Batmobile lost a wheel and Joker got away, hey!"

We all laughed. Cute kids, we thought, incorrigible. But seriously, children, let's sing ... oh ... "Joy to the World." And we all joined in again. But soon, from the other side of the room, a different voice departed from the authorized lyrics with, "Joy to the world, the bus blew up, and all the kids are ..." But this time the grownups tried to drown it out by singing louder, "... and wonders of his love, and wonders of his Love, and ..." but these kids outnumbered us almost two to one, "... with a knife stuck in his head, a knife, a knife, stuck in his ..." We parents glanced suspiciously among ourselves trying to determine whose kid it was that taught this mockery to our dear ones (I know it wasn't my kids ...) when another child suggested we sing "Deck the Halls."

A great idea, Joshua. Now that's the kind of example we want our children to see. I nodded approvingly to his parents and strummed a chord on the guitar. But before I could sing the first verse Joshua stood up, a look of determined madness in his eyes, and led the children with "Deck the halls with gasoline, fa la la la la la la la la, strike a match and watch it gleam, fa la la la la la la la la ..." With a determined hunch of our shoulders, the parents sang out loudly, "Don we now our gay apparel ..." but we were no match for the screaming horde and their forceful, "... aren't you glad we play with matches, fa la la la la la la la la ..."

Remembering the first rule of parenting ("Separate the children"), grown-ups spread through the giddy pack, grabbing the impressionable youngest, placing them on our laps, and reaching for the older troublemakers to corral their energies.

"Let's not forget what Christmas is all about," I said, unconvincingly. "So why don't we sing, 'We Three Kings.'" Hoping the images of the manger and the long journey of the Wise Men would calm the unruly urchins, the parents waited for quiet, then solemnly began, "We three kings of Orient are ..." "TRIED TO SMOKE A 10-FOOT CIGAR ..." The dam was starting to break ..."IT WAS LOADED, IT EXPLO-O-DED ..." Who ARE these kids, anyway? "... no more kings of Orient are ..."

Did they learn this stuff at school!? Is their home life somehow incomplete? Is six hours a day of television too much? Should they be disciplined more regularly ("Stop singing or there'll be NO SECONDS ON DESSERT!")?

These and other questions ran through our minds as we hurriedly called an end to our festive first- and last-annual Christmas sing. We packed up our young embarrassments and began the short, merciful journey home.

Note: Only 15 more shopping days to remind your children they're not getting ANYTHING for Christmas.

Ed Spivey Jr. is art director of Sojourners.